


saying something dangerous (like i love you)

by softtheatrics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Enjolras, Pining Enjolras, the entire first chapter of this is pining. most of the second one is too., theatre kid les amis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23589100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softtheatrics/pseuds/softtheatrics
Summary: “He’s not the one trying to lead, he’s not the one with people counting on him, he’s not the one with feelings to bruise.”Combeferre’s head cocks to one side as he watches Enjolras with a steady straight face.“Feelings to bruise?” Combeferre asks, oh so innocently.“Yeah, feelings to bruise. I love him, he hates me, what does it matter if I am angry?”Or, Enjolras is in love.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 135





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from a poem by anne sexton.

“I’m in love with him,” Enjolras whispers into the dead of night. It’s not quite dark enough for such a revelation, the moon shining quietly through the window and illuminating his bedroom into grayscale hues. This is the sort of revelation that should be left only for the pitch black or a sunny afternoon. But Enjolras was never one for the right time. “I’m in love with Grantaire,” he repeats, louder, no longer whispering. Instead, declaring. 

_Yes_ , the moon seems to reply to him as she provides him the privacy he craves by hiding behind a cloud. _I know_. 

//

He is squeezed into the spot between Grantaire and Joly in Courfeyrac’s basement, and Grantaire is making wild gestures, arguing some point with Combeferre on a documentary Enjolras had never seen before, and he has his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. And Enjolras is on fire. 

Because this is tradition. Enjolras always sits next to Grantaire when they hang out. What started as a dumb rule that their friends enforced to get them to stop fighting each other simply became force of habit and soon after became unavoidable. Enjolras always sat next to Grantaire. Grantaire would always sit next to Enjolras. It was a rule. Enjolras regularly catches himself scanning rooms that might contain Grantaire in them so that he can sit next to him. There is no good reason for him to be any more nervous today than any other day. 

_They have tradition._

Grantaire keeps on resting his arm on Enjolras’s knee, and Grantaire keeps leaning on Enjolras, and Grantaire keeps putting his arm around Enjolras when he is particularly proud of a counter argument. And every time, every single time, Enjolras would jump in his seat. 

And, well, goddamn him, Grantaire kept on asking him if he was ‘ _ok_ ’. 

Enjolras could not give him an honest answer to such a question even if he wanted to. 

// 

“God, look at this,” Grantaire says, a note of disdain in his voice as he shows Enjolras the half-finished illustration board he is taking home. “It’s so fuckin’ gross.” He dissolves into laughter, bright and loud, in direct contrast to the bizarre statement he had directed towards Enjolras. 

“That is really good,” Enjolras says, genuinely. He can’t really keep his eyes off of it, in fact. 

Enjolras knows, intrinsically, that Grantaire is good at art. He sometimes comes into their joint Government glass with paint stains on his clothes that even he himself seems confused as to where they came from. Enjolras has an album on his photos app full of his art that had been displayed, either in the halls, on his social media, or in the yearly school art show.   
But knowing that and facing that head on is two different things. 

Grantaire is using a picture from the fall play. Enjolras is one of the faces present, smushed together with Joly, Musichetta, Bahorel, and Eponine. The five of them are grinning widely and facing the viewer, and Enjolras _remembers_ that photo. 

Musichetta had found Bahorel crying about something or other in the hallway, and, knowing the best way to comfort Bahorel is to just simply be a physical presence, she laid her head on his chest. Joly was not too far behind, laying his entire torso over Bahorel’s legs. Eponine was bullied into joining the cuddle pile by a well consoled Bahorel, who grabbed Enjolras by the hand and pulled him down too. 

Grantaire stumbled upon them not long after, drawn by the sound of laughter, as well as on the search for missing actors. He laughed and laughed, and then snapped several photos. 

Enjolras hadn’t realized that that photo was so important to Grantaire.

He isn’t exactly surprised by the emotional attachment, of course, but he must admit that staring at his own laughing likeness made permanent with oil pastels is shocking, to say the least. He wonders if Grantaire can feel the waves of gratitude and confusion and fondness that roll off of Enjolras with every breath he takes, every word that crosses his mind, as he stares at the large illustration board. 

“You can have it then,” Grantaire says. He sighs after a moment, as if reminded of something. “After the art show. I swear, that woman must be in love with me, every one of my pieces this year has gotten in.”

“I can see why,” Enjolras says. Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a moment, takes in the sincerity of Enjolras’s comment. 

“What a chore,” Grantaire says, seemingly deeming Enjolras’s statement a joke. He puts a sheet of tracing paper back over the drawing, shutting out both dust and prying eyes from ruining the image. 

//

“I know that you’re frustrated,” Combeferre says after a particularly dramatic meeting. “But take it easy on Grantaire.”

“Why should I?” Enjolras asks blindly, turning on Combeferre to look him in the eye, even though he’s almost a foot shorter and they both know Combeferre could topple Enjolras over with a flick on the forehead. “He’s not the one trying to lead, he’s not the one with people counting on him, he’s not the one with feelings to bruise.”

Combeferre’s head cocks to one side as he watches Enjolras with a steady straight face. 

“Feelings to bruise?” Combeferre asks, oh so innocently. 

“Yeah, feelings to bruise. I love him, he hates me, what does it matter if I am angry?” Enjolras says, and, well, he knows how he looks: all frizzy hair and heaving breaths, his short frame struggling extra hard to carry the weight of such an admittance. 

“Oh, Enj,” Combeferre says, and he looks sad. He looks _sorry_ for Enjolras. “You don’t talk to him as much as you should, huh?”

“No,” Enjolras says, his shoulders sagging. He looks down at Combeferre’s feet. “I know I don’t.”

Combeferre is wearing Vans. 

Enjolras doesn’t know why that strikes him so deeply, doesn’t know why it hits him harder than anything else he can parse together. 

Combeferre never wore Vans. 

And it’s not specifically the shoes themselves, it’s just that it seems like there should have been a transition period, that Enjolras should have known this, that he should have been introduced to such a topic in a slower, more cautious manner. The imagery is too difficult for Enjolras to understand, takes him too long to think over. 

Maybe it’s because he missed it. If he missed the transition from Always-Dressed-To-Impress Combeferre to Wears-Vans-Like-It’s-Nothing Combeferre, then what else has he missed? 

“How long have you been wearing those?” Enjolras finds himself asking before Combeferre can continue. Combeferre looks bewildered. He stares at Enjolras slack-jawed for a moment, brow furrowed, before looking down at the horrid monstrosities in question. 

“What, my Vans?” Combeferre asks. “For like, two months. Enjolras, are you ok?” And Enjolras feels the need to sit down all of a sudden, feels the world sweeping around him, feels his heart drop into the soles of his own boots. 

“Yeah, I’m–” Enjolras swallows the horror rising up his throat. “I’m ok. Sorry, I just didn’t realise you grew up, I guess.” He smiles, but he himself can feel the sadness in it, can feel the way it just raises more doubts than reassurances. “Anyway, we were talking about Grantaire?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre says softly, and he looks concerned, which wasn’t the plan. “Yeah, you should really talk to him,” Combeferre says, regaining composure. “Before you keep on thinking he hates you. Listen, Enj, you know you can tell me if there’s something wrong, right? You don’t have to hide something like that from me.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. “Yeah, I know. I have to go.” He turns away from Combeferre, swinging his bookbag over his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’ll talk to you later.”

Enjolras doesn’t miss the lingering concern evident on Combeferre’s face as he leaves the room. But, god, does he wish he had. 

//

Hands. 

Grantaire has really nice hands. 

That’s all Enjolras can think about. 

And, yeah, he knows that isn’t good, he knows that he should be paying attention, he knows he should look away, look instead at the notebook laid out in front of him. But Grantaire is _right_ _there_ , and Grantaire’s hands are _right_ _there_ , and really, Enjolras shouldn’t be blamed for his inability to pay attention in class—it was the teacher who placed them across from each other. It was the teacher who allowed Enjolras this reprieve from learning, the teacher who assisted Enjolras in his intrepid, cautious, hopeful daydreams. 

Because that’s just the thing, isn’t it? It’s just daydreams. His feelings will never have any grounding in reality. As much as his heart swoops when he sees Grantaire watch him during meetings, as much as his heart pounds when they cross in the hallways, as much as his brain thrills when Grantaire grins a wicked grin during their many debates—it’s not realistic. Grantaire is just being Grantaire, all thumbs-up and soft smiles and obnoxious laughter and it’s not anything _new_. It’s not anything _different_. It’s just Grantaire. Grantaire has always been like that, caring too much about his friends and not enough about the world around him. 

That reality is hard to remember, though, when Grantaire is sitting across from him, and Grantaire’s hands are across from him, and Enjolras’ mind is one that has always been too fast for his own good. 

He hears Grantaire snicker and he drops his gaze back down to his paper. 

//

“You know, when I was a kid,” Grantaire says, a smile on his face as he wipes the back of his hand against a wicked scrape on his cheek. He’s watching Enjolras’ panicked pacing with a sort of smugness, something that Enjolras should really be more annoyed by, but he can’t find the time to between all the worry and guilt. “I really didn’t think this is how I’d end up.”

“What, getting roped into a cause you don’t believe in by a socialist that talks too loud?” Enjolras says, and he doesn’t mean to be so harsh on himself—it’s just that he can’t find a single possible reasoning to this whole thing that doesn’t involve himself as the party at fault. 

“Didn’t expect you to be the self-deprecating type,” Grantaire says. “I’ve had worse, it’s not so big a deal.”

“You do know that just makes me more worried, yeah?” Enjolras says. Grantaire just shrugs. 

“I figure this has less to do with me and more to do with the hit to your cause,” Grantaire says, as if it’s obvious. As if it isn’t the furthest thing from the truth that Enjolras could possibly imagine. “Just giving the okay for you to go on worrying about the cause, wouldn’t want my injuries to get in the way.” He’s still grinning, his words seem sarcastic, but his tone is _serious_. The look in his eyes is genuine.

“What?” Enjolras says, stopping his pacing to stare at Grantaire. “What?” he repeats. 

“You know what,” Grantaire says, his smile wavering. “I’m giving you the okay. You don’t have to pretend to care about me.”

“But I do care about you,” Enjolras says. And the sincerity in his voice is almost embarrassing, dripping with unrequited feelings and sorrow and love and worry and _confusion_. “I’m not worried about the cause, I’m worried about you.”

Grantaire sighs, all traces of a smile gone from his face. He looks down at his hands, looking at but not seeing the scrapes that taunt Enjolras. 

“Aren’t you tired of this?” He asks, only just loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

And, well, Enjolras doesn’t know how to respond to such a statement. Because really how could he? What is there to say that could satisfy Grantaire, especially since he isn’t quite sure he understands the question being posed. Enjolras can only look at him, can only stand there, gaping, wondering, worrying. Grantaire doesn’t continue, just stares back at Enjolras, stone faced—all scrapes and curly hair and slumped shoulders.

“I–” Enjolras starts. 

“Grantaire? Holy shit!” Joly interrupts, rushing down the hallway, Bossuet and Musichetta trailing behind, both clearly following to make sure Joly doesn’t hurt himself in his quest. 

Grantaire looks away to talk to Joly, and suddenly Enjolras feels exhausted. Exposed. 

He turns away. 

//

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks as he lifts his phone to his ear, his voice groggy with sleep, his eyes squinting against the disgustingly bright screen, his hair tangled into a mess atop his head. “What’s happening?”

For a moment, there isn’t an answer. Enjolras is only met with the quiet ticking of his analog clock and the pattering of rain on his window. A dream, he’s sure, though what a cruel one he has decided to pit against himself. Grantaire doesn’t want to talk to him, Grantaire does not like him. 

_You don’t have to pretend to care about me_ , he had said, and isn’t that just another way to say _I don’t want you here_. 

“I really didn’t think you’d pick up,” Grantaire says with a self-deprecating chuckle. And he might have been right if he had been anyone else, but long ago Enjolras had turned off do not disturb for Grantaire’s contact. “I was kinda hoping to be able to use an ignored call as more kindling for the fire, as it were, you know?” Grantaire rushes on, despite the early nature of his call turning Enjolras’ brain to mush. “So I could be like: ‘well, of course there was that one time that Enj ignored my call at two thirty-four am, so that proves that he hates me!’ You know?”

“Uh, I think I do, actually,” Enjolras says. “I don’t hate you, though?”

“Hmm,” Grantaire says, sounding very much like he doesn’t believe Enjolras. “Noted.”

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks. “Why did you call?”

“I’m, ah, not having a good night,” Grantaire says, helpfully. “And I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself, so I thought, ‘oh hey! You know what would be cool? Feeling sorry for myself now with the extra-special all-my-friends-hate-me expansion pack!’ So now we’re here, I guess. Again, I didn’t think you’d pick up, so please rest assured in knowing that some of my faith has been restored! Although, my rambling right now is kind of destroying that, too. I sound like such a fool.”

“No you don’t,” Enjolras says. “My brain just isn’t working right now. I’m quite tired.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Grantaire says. “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, just tell me.”

“Well, then. I expect hot chocolate in homeroom tomorrow. 7:45, sharp,” Enjolras says. He means it as a joke, but they both know he’s not exactly funny. He’s especially not funny past 2am. And he’s definitely not funny while talking to Grantaire. Grantaire allows him the victory of a small huff of laughter, barely audible over the phone. 

“Roger that,” Grantaire says. 

“Anyway,” Enjolras says. “I picked up, so how can I help?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says. “I just don’t do well being alone for long periods of time, I guess.”

“I can’t drive,” Enjolras says. 

“Ok?” Grantaire says. “You don’t have to come over. I think even just talking helps.”

“Well then,” Enjolras says. “Talk away.”

//

There’s a metal reusable cup sitting on Enjolras’ desk when he gets to homeroom the next day. A post-it note, too, though it only reads ‘For E, From R’.

There’s a notification on his screen when he looks down at his phone. 

_7.45, sharp._

Enjolras’ heart swoops. 


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that this isn’t the best way to handle things. That he’s offering less than an explanation, that Grantaire deserves more than what he’s giving him, but he doesn’t see a better option. It’s this, or… what? Tell him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for the f slur in the first section.

“Fuck you,” Enjolras finds himself shouting, straining against the much stronger arms of Bahorel and Grantaire. “Fuck you and your fragile personality!”

The three of them are standing in something close to a triangle: Enjolras trying desperately to rush the guy, batter him with fists, nails, teeth. Grantaire and Bahorel trying to manage damage control behind both his arms, and the guy across from Enjolras grinning, a smug look on his face. 

It started innocently enough: he really was just a douchebag looking for some entertainment. Enjolras always seems like an easy target for people like that, a forest waiting for a spark. He does his best to lie low, to avoid antagonism. When he can’t, he tunes it out—plans school projects in his head, pictures the moles on Grantaire’s face, lists out all the stickers he can remember from Joly’s cane. Usually it works. In fact, just about nine out of ten times it works. But there’s something about this guy, something about the way he smiles, something about the way a light glints in his eyes as he says, “Well, I heard from that faggot you talk to–” that sets Enjolras off, marching towards him and rolling his sleeves up in a way reminiscent of Pop-eye. 

Because, well, the only person that Enjolras knows that would talk to this jackass would be Grantaire. He’s the only one with the gall to listen, and the only one with the stomach to tell him anything. 

Unfortunately for Enjolras’s sudden urge to punch someone in the middle of the hall, he doesn’t get the chance to land anything before he hears rapidly approaching footsteps and feels two strong pairs of arms holding him back. His arms itch to swing, even as Bahorel’s deep, rumbling voice is mumbling calming phrases in his ear, and Grantaire is pointedly smiling at the guy Enjolras wants so badly to punch, to hit, to harm, to silence. 

“Enjolras, he’s not worth it,” Bahorel is saying, his voice stern, but Enjolras can only hear ringing, can only see red. Grantaire’s smile is charming as he turns his focus to the boy, “You’d better get out of here, man. He’s stronger than you think.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” the guy says. “Let him fight.” Bahorel lets out a sudden, booming laugh in Enjolras’ ear. Something in his chest unravels at the sound—Enjolras genuinely believes Bahorel’s laugh could cure death. They should hire him at children hospitals. Therapy dogs and Spiderman impersonators and Bahorel, all trying their very best to make somebody’s day better. 

“Dude, just fuckin’ go,” Bahorel says. “You look like a dumbass.”

The dude’s face falls, looking highly disappointed as he realizes he lost, and grumbling as he turns the corner and walks away. Bahorel lets go and Grantaire follows suit, leaving Enjolras to stumble forwards several feet. He turns around in a huff, glaring as well as he can while still being almost a foot shorter than both Grantaire and Bahorel. 

“I had him,” Enjolras says. Grantaire snorts, leans against the lockers. Bahorel shoots an amused glance at Grantaire, looks back to Enjolras. “I did!”

“You sure did, bud,” Bahorel says. “But you can’t just beat someone up because you feel like it.”

“He deserved it,” Enjolras says, haughtily turning his nose up. 

“Why, because he called someone a faggot?” Grantaire asks. “Dude, you can’t punch every fucking homophobe you see.”

“It’s not just because he said the word,” Enjolras says. “It’s because–” he cuts himself off. Grantaire looks confused. Bahorel is hiding his smile. He can’t… he can’t…

“It’s because–”

He can’t. 

As much as he wants to say something, as much as he wants to lay his heart on the ground and say  _ please stomp on this _ , as much as he wants to just get it over with, he can’t. He simply can’t. He tries to form the words, to put a name to it, to just say it, but he can’t. They stop in his head, in his throat, on his tongue, he can feel the words choking him. 

He grabs his book bag off the floor at about the same moment in which his ears start ringing. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

He tries to block out the sound of Bahorel trying to explain his behavior to Grantaire, ignoring the pit growing in his stomach with every step. 

//

When he was young, Enjolras thought the moon was chasing him. During long drives, he would sit in the backseat and stare out the window, and his heart would beat in his chest, louder and louder and louder, as he realized the moon was still there, staring him down. He thought he was being chased, that maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe everyone else was just playing trickster when assuring that the moon always looked that way. That they were just humoring him, sharing concerned looks when he turned his head. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t think he was wrong. 

But now, he thinks he knows better. She wasn’t chasing him, she was simply watching from afar. Anxiously waiting to talk to him, to gossip, to warn him, to, to, to—well, he’s not quite sure. But what he does know is that she doesn’t mean him any harm. That the bright lines against the floor are just another way to say  _ it will be okay _ , that the quiet glow against his eyelids is just her way of trying to help, that she’s simply trying to be comforting. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispers. 

She stays with him as he falls asleep. 

//

For the most part, he tries not to be distracted by Grantaire at school. He’s not ignoring him, per se, he just isn’t giving him the same attention as he had been allowing himself to. He keeps his head bowed in the classes they share, he tries very hard to not pass him in the hallways, he doesn’t let their legs touch when they sit next to each other the same way he used to. He pointedly ignores the bemused sadness that emanates from his face, he doesn’t spare a glance to watch him write. 

He knows that this isn’t the best way to handle things. That he’s offering less than an explanation, that Grantaire deserves more than what he’s giving him, but he doesn’t see a better option. It’s this, or… what? Tell him? Let this continue to plague him? He doesn’t want to live in this limbo anymore, doesn’t want to keep letting himself believe that there’s something there when he’s clearly just making nothing into more than it ever could be. He wants to stop feeling like this, and he wants to stop feeling like he’s missing something. 

//

_ i don’t know what’s going on,  _ Grantaire texts him late one night soon later.  _ but i think u would benefit from seeing this picture of my cat.  _

Attached is an image of a very small black kitten asleep on a, comparatively, very large grey pillow. Next to her little head is a neon purple plastic ball with a bell inside, clearly abandoned by the little creature that has fallen asleep beside it. 

_ her name is grape. _

Enjolras smiles as he reads the text once, twice, thrice. He stares at the image for longer than probably necessary before responding. 

_ Aww so cute! Thank you :-)! _

Before he can dwell on the connotations of such a message, his phone starts buzzing with a call. Without thinking, Enjolras takes it. 

“Are you mad at me?” Grantaire asks. 

“No,” Enjolras says. 

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are we ok?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” Grantaire says. “Things are stressful.”

“I’m aware,” Enjolras says. He pulls his blankets up over his shoulders, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the beating of his heart in his ears. He’s sure Grantaire can hear the nervousness in his hushed voice over the phone. He tries not to think about it. 

“Have you been ignoring me?”

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras says, which is an obtuse answer. He has, of course he has, but only because he thinks his heart is developing a disorder, only because the smile Grantaire gives him when they talk makes his head pound and his face flush and his hands sweat. 

“Huh,” Grantaire says. He sounds just as hushed as Enjolras is, which makes him wonder why he had called. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Enjolras says, his heart pounding. “How are you?”

“Well,” Grantaire says. “It’s been a bit of a week. I really thought you had been avoiding me.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says. “I really didn’t want to give the impression–”

“No worries man,” Grantaire says. “I figure it’s less about me and more about you, in this case.”

And, well, that’s not what Enjolras was expecting to hear. What he was expecting was more listening to Grantaire’s voice, was more heartache on behalf of someone else, was more consolation than sleeping. What he wasn’t expecting was to be called out, to explain, to have his heartbeat land in his throat as he tried to assuage the spotlight shining on his own misgivings. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Grantaire says, his voice calmer than usual, missing the usual edge to it. 

It’s in this moment that Enjolras realizes that Grantaire knows. 

He doesn’t know why it’s taken this long for him to realize that Grantaire has known this whole time. It seems so obvious now. Once the first realization comes so follow all the other, smaller ones. First, he’s known since the beginning. Probably since before he could admit it to himself. He wonders how long, wonders what was the breaking point. Second, the hot chocolate, the phone call,  _ “aren’t you tired of this?”.  _ It’s all just another way to say “I know what you think about me”. 

And this, this is just another way to let him down easy. 

“I’m sorry I ever thought I was enough for this,” Enjolras says without thinking. “I’m sorry I can’t be more.” 

“What?”

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” Enjolras says. “Go back to Grape, she deserves your time more than I do.”

He hangs up and turns off his phone. 

He doesn’t fall asleep that night. 

//

There’s a text from Grantaire when he turns on his phone in the morning. 

_ you are enough.  _

//

“What’s happening to you?” Eponine asks as she sits down next to him in Biology.

Enjolras never liked biology. Nothing against any of his teachers or anything, he just got grossed out by fish. And bugs. And the knowledge that there’s bacteria living in his eyebrows. When he drudged into Bio on the first day, he was so happy to see Eponine, even happier to see his seat assigned next to hers. Now, though, he can’t help but feel that it may have been a curse. 

“What do you mean?” He asks. She fixes him with a withering stare and he can feel his spine crumble in on itself. 

“Grantaire,” Eponine says. “You’re freaking him out.” 

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “That wasn’t my intent.”

“Then stop acting so weird,” She says. She begins rifling in her bag as she speaks again—shoving her arm in her bag to the elbow to the tune of paper being crumpled. “He says you’ve been avoiding him. And then something about a call a couple days ago? I don’t know. He didn’t explain it very well.” She removes her arm from her bag with a flourish, presenting him with a pack of gum. “Gum?” 

“Uh, no, thanks,” Enjolras says. Eponine shrugs and pops a piece in her mouth. “I didn’t think he cared that much.” He looks down at his hands. “I think he thinks I’m annoying.”

Eponine snorts. Enjolras looks up at her and he can almost see a smile through her heavy make-up. “Oh, bub,” she says. “You know you’re talking about Grantaire, yeah? Like, you’ve heard him talk before?”

“Come on,” he says. “He’s not that bad.” Eponine looks at him funny: an eyebrow cocked, a smug smile, her fingers tapping on the top of her desk in an inexplicably mocking way. “Ok, sometimes it gets to be a little much, but really! He’s charming! In kind of a weird way. It doesn’t matter. Sure, he talks a lot, and sure he cares about a lot of stuff I don’t, and he can be kind of obnoxious about it, but he isn’t annoying.”

“Dude, he doesn’t think you’re annoying either,” she says, and, well. Eponine isn’t a liar. “You should really talk to him.”

“I’ll, I’ll talk to him,” he repeats, quieter. She laughs. 

“Are you alright?” She asks. He nods.

“Perfectly fine. You?”

“I’m okay,” Eponine says. She rolls her pencil over her desk a couple times under the palm of her hand. “I told you about the Cosette situation?”

“Ooo, the Cosette situation,” Enjolras says. She bonks him on the arm with the back of her hand. “Yes, you told me about the Cosette situation.”

“Well, good and bad news.” She heaves a sigh. “Good news is, when we hung out last weekend she fell asleep on my shoulder and she may or may not have kissed me when she woke up. Bad news, Marius asked her out last night.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Enjolras says. “That, uh, that fuckin’ sucks.” 

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Eponine says. “It’ll be alright, but, man.”

“Did she say yes?”

“She didn’t say,” she says. She twirls her pencil in her hand so that the tip is pointed up, and she begins rapidly clicking the eraser against the desk so that a large piece of lead is revealed into the world. After a couple seconds, she flips the pencil so she can reset the lead, and then she does it again. And again. “Or at least I didn’t hear her say. I assume she had? I don’t know why she would have told me if she hadn’t. I kind of blacked out everything she had said after she told me about it but, you know. Who’s to say.”

“I would say you should talk to her about it and clear things up but, you know,” Enjolras says. “I’m me.”

“You sure are, bub,” Eponine says with a breathy laugh. “Oh, God in Heaven above, you sure are.”

//

“I’m in love with you,” Enjolras says. He can visibly see himself cringe when he says it, and he sighs. He’s standing in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror with his fingers curled around the sides of the sink. The door is cracked open, and honestly he doesn’t have the heart to close it. Maybe, if his parents pass by, they’ll give him advice or something. Give him some life changing lecture, as they are often want to do. He sure as shit doesn’t know what he’s saying, doesn’t know why he’s saying it, so maybe they would have some idea.

“This is fucking stupid,” he mumbles. He steps back from the mirror, sits on the side of the bathtub, dragging his hand over his face. “What am I even doing?”

The little Eponine in his head tells him that he’s trying, that he’s talking to him, that he owes it to both her and himself to at least attempt to have this conversation. The little Bahorel in his head is laughing at him. The little Grantaire in his head is saying—

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Enjolras jumps back up faster than his gasp leaves his mouth, and then he’s staring at Grantaire at the open doorway, hunched over and looking uncomfortable. And then he’s a little bit choking on his gasp and Grantaire looks worried and Enjolras is waving him off. 

“How-”

“You’re mom let me in,” Grantaire interrupts him. It seems like he practiced this statement, that he wanted to make sure he didn’t come off wrong to begin with. “She said to just come up. Said something about you being happy to see me?” 

“Of course I am,” Enjolras says. “Happy to see you. It’s a little unexpected.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “It’s been a while. I just, uh, wanted to see you. And see what was up, really.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. He looks back at himself in the mirror for a moment, takes in the way the bags underneath his eyes are more prominent than usual, that his shirt is from a reading competition he was on the losing team for in middle school, that his hair is unwashed and piled in the worst bun possible. He looks back at Grantaire and decides to ignore it. “I’m sorry I was ignoring you.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s alright. I mean, it came out of nowhere and it kind of sucked ass, but it’s alright.” He looks down at the wooden cabinets. Enjolras follows suit. “What are you doing in here, anyway. You looked like you wanted to die when I came up here.”

“I, well, um,” Enjolras says, eloquent as ever. “I’ve been an asshole to you.”

Grantaire nods. It’s a little weird to see him agree, a little scary. It’s the kind of thing that has Enjolras’s chest plummeting and leaves him feeling sick and shaky. He ignores the way he looks, he ignores his chest, he keeps on trying. 

“You didn’t deserve it, you definitely deserved an explanation and I’m sorry I didn’t give you one.”

There’s a pause. Grantaire is still staring at him. He looks just a smidgen less uncomfortable, but the hunch to his shoulders gets deeper, his hands in his pockets dig just a little deeper. “You, I.” Enjolras closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them back up. “I’m, well, I kind of love you.” 

He ignores the way something in Grantaire’s expression goes slack, the tension leaves his body. He ignores the way his own chest is hurting something wicked, ignores the way his nails are digging into his own leg. “And I figure you knew that, and I’m sorry for my redundancy. But I have to tell you that outright. Because you deserve that. I deserve that. I was ignoring you because it’s easier just to ignore it. It’s easier to just pretend my feelings don’t exist, it’s easier to pretend you don’t exist. But it isn’t really easier, it just made it worse for the both of us. It made everything’s worse and I’m sorry and I love you.”

For a moment, Enjolras is looking at Grantaire’s face and all he sees is nothing. The non hunched shoulders, the small smile, the unfurrowed eyebrows: these are all just normal things, Grantaire looks the same as normal. 

And then he stops ignoring it. He readjusts his jaw, he takes a deep breath, and he just fucking thinks about it for a second. 

And then he realizes: Grantaire is smiling at him softly, and his shoulders are relaxing, and he’s calmed down, and he’s comfortable, and he’s happy, and he’s standing at the doorway of the tiny bathroom near Enjolras’s room, and Enjolras loves him, and it’s so goddamn nice to see him again. 

Grantaire came over because he wanted to see him, because he missed him. He is still smiling at him even though he looks like a tragedy on wobbly legs. He exists, and he’s smiling at him, and he’s missed him, and he’s there, and Enjolras loves him. 

Grantaire opens his arms out to Enjolras for a hug, and Enjolras takes what he is offered. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!  
> love yall! stay safe


End file.
